Rock Me Gently_A Havenwood Falls Novel

by Susan Burdorf

  “Yep, broke and disillusioned,” quipped Harry as he grinned, the first real grin Brett had seen on his friend’s face in a long time.

  Reflections on a Possibility

  (Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)

  Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck

  I’m missing you in my bed

  I’m whispering into the silence

  just to hear my voice speak

  I imagine you answering

  smiles in the darkness

  painting stars on the ceiling

  An ocean of possibilities stretch before me

  unclaimed and reflected in your eyes

  The room grows dark too soon

  Shadows fill the empty places

  Memories of your promises

  shake me aware

  I want the silence back

  the silence that is filled with you

  Chapter 7

  Weeks went by, and Brett hadn’t made a decision yet. He knew the boys would say to tell the record company to “shove it where the sun don’t shine,” but he couldn’t close the door to the possibility that he held the means to keep his friends and himself from bankruptcy.

  He could help them. He could help them all. Why, then, did he hesitate?

  There were three calls on his voicemail just from today: one from Bryan and two from Amanda, demanding his answer. They were about to set the hounds loose, and Brett knew what that meant.

  Something stayed his hand from signing this blood contract, though, and he couldn’t say what it was.

  He’d tried for the last three weeks to get his mind off the band’s troubles, but all he’d managed to do was bury them in a bottle. Vodka, whiskey, he didn’t care. He wasn’t a drunk, but that was before. Before Locke and the Grammys and the disappointment and fear he’d seen in the eyes of his friends.

  “Some leader of the band you turned out to be,” he chided himself as he twirled a glass filled with amber liquid on the arm of the deckchair he was sitting in. He stared out at the ocean spread out in front of him in an endless series of repetitive waves, their white caps waving to him in a silent plea for him to come out and play with them. Their siren song was strong, and it took all his willpower not to get up and just start walking.

  He didn’t like to swim. This house by the ocean had been a gift intended for his mother—it was her dream to retire and live near the ocean. But he’d even managed to fuck that up. His timing, never good, really sucked when it came right down to it. Her death was still on his mind, more so lately than ever before.

  “Sorry, Mom, I’m a horrible son,” he said as he swallowed the contents of the glass in one swig.

  Closing his eyes, he leaned back in the chair, the glass forgotten in his hands as he found himself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the lullaby of the ocean.

  The grass under his bare feet was crisp and a brilliant shade of green. In his hand he held a parchment, a piece of yellowed paper older than he was. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he knew it was true. He looked down in surprise to see he was wearing a long white gown, not unlike those nightgowns of old, something he would expect to see on Ebenezer Scrooge or someone from that time period. He floated, not quite touching the grass anymore as he neared the familiar boulder.

  Sitting down, his back against the warm rock, he drifted to sleep.

  His eyes snapped open at the sound of soft footfalls nearby. Glancing around the granite, he was, and yet wasn’t, surprised to see the woman in white. Her blond hair flowed freely down her back, a golden river he wanted to swim in.

  He stood.

  He walked toward her. She stood with her back to him. She hadn’t turned around yet. As he watched, her body shivered, her shoulders undulating as they gave birth to her wings. Brilliant white, they nearly blinded him.

  He gasped.

  The sound caused her to turn, her face hidden behind the silvery light that followed her form like a writhing snake, encompassing her in a gentle hug. He could see her mouth, soft and pink, open into a beautiful smile.

  Her hands reached for him.

  “Hello, lover,” she whispered.

  Her voice was unbelievably sweet, innocent and pure like a baby’s. It soothed him.

  “Come to Havenwood Falls. I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  He felt his shoulders itching. Flexing his shoulder blades, he was shocked when a pressure, starting at the point of his shoulder blades, broke free of his skin to reveal his own wings in a pale, dove-gray color. They were so beautiful, he nearly cried. He twisted until he could hold the tip of one in his hand. The feathers were like a breath of air, floating and ethereal. They filled him with a peace he’d never known.

  He smiled. He looked up. She watched him, her eyes a color like none he’d ever seen before. In their depths he saw pain, and forgiveness, and love. His hand reached for hers. He knew if he could touch her, he would be at peace. Nothing would ever hurt him again.

  He woke as his shoulders were roughly shaken.

  “Hey, Brett. Brett, are you okay? Come on, man. Stop this.”

  Brett slowly opened his eyes, angry he was being awoken and wanting to throttle whoever had taken him out of his dream place. Clouded eyes clearing, he saw Cooly standing beside him with a worried expression on his face.

  Brett looked down and found his bare feet were rooted in sand, and the ocean was rinsing them as it ebbed and flowed around him. He felt the grittiness and grimaced, wishing he was on that soft grass again.

  “You okay?” Cooly repeated, his tone worried.

  Panic was reflected in Cooly’s eyes as he looked at his friend. Brett nodded slowly, his brain still fogged by alcohol and the dream. He wasn’t sure what was real right at that moment.

  “I’m fine,” he said, grabbing Cooly for support as he found himself suddenly weak in the knees. What was he doing by the ocean? He looked behind him and saw he’d walked a good hundred yards without even being aware of leaving the deck.

  “Let’s go back inside. I have something to talk to you about,” Cooly said. He gripped Brett firmly by the arm and half dragged the rocker back to the house.

  Once inside, Cooly handed a tall glass of water to Brett and said, “Drink this, buddy. You need to lay off the hard stuff for a while.”

  Brett nodded. He took a long swallow of the water, finding it strangely refreshing. The fog in his mind was clearing, and he looked at Cooly in confusion. He hadn’t spoken to his friend in days. Did he drunk-dial him? Did Cooly show up in time to keep him from taking that walk into the ocean because he called him?

  “Why are you here?” Brett asked.

  “The guys and I were worried. No one’s heard from you in days. What have you been doing . . . besides drinking, and nearly taking a walk into the ocean, that is? Where did you think you were going to go? You do remember you don’t know how to swim, right?”

  Brett, looking sheepish, mumbled, “Wasn’t going to swim, was going to fly.”

  “Yeah, and just exactly when did you sprout wings?”

  Brett flexed his shoulders, the heavy weight of the wings gone from his back, and sighed. It was just a dream. Just another one of those crazy, stupid dreams.

  “You have anything you want to tell me, dude?” said Cooly.

  Brett caught an undertone of anger in Cooly’s voice and wondered what that was all about.

  “Not really sure where you’re going with this tone.” Brett studied Cooly, gauging his friend’s face for clues to what was upsetting him. His eyes fell on the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the table, and he licked his lips, wishing he could reach out for it for just one more taste. But he had a feeling Cooly wouldn’t appreciate him being any more drunk than he already was.

  “Did you know,” Brett said with a lopsided grin, “you are fucking cute? I need to put the two of you together, though. It’s hurting my eyes to look at you both. When’d you become a twin, anyway?”

  Brett clapped his hands together, the images of Cooly st
aying doubled no matter how hard he tried to combine them into one.

  Cooly watched him, his anger visibly increasing. He didn’t speak. Instead, lips tightening to a thin line, he pulled a paper out of his pocket. It was one of those trade papers that catered to actors looking for auditions and other entertainment news. The article he thrust in Brett’s face was a small one, just a few lines, written inside a box that outlined the short, three sentence announcement.

  Brett closed his eyes, hoping when he opened them that the words would have stopped bouncing around. After a minute of concentrated effort, he was able to make sense of the article that had brought Cooly to his house in such a tizzy.

  Singer-songwriter Brett Rhys-Falwyck, formerly of the band Pink Melon, and best known for his hit song “Love is Like a Memory,” has signed a three-year contract with Forthright Records and Management Company. Mr. Rhys-Falwyck will be writing for the management company that formerly managed his band, Pink Melon, in a development capacity, and will report directly to the president of the company, Greg Granite.

  Brett stared at the short article in shock. When had he agreed to this? He couldn’t remember doing it. But here it was, in black and white, confirmation of his selling his soul to the company that had caused so much heartache to them all. Surely he wouldn’t have done that. That would be like stabbing his friends and former bandmates in the heart. No wonder Cooly was so pissed. He would be, too, if one of the other guys had done that.

  He racked his brain. Wait . . . That chick Amanda had come to his house . . . last week? The week before? Why couldn’t he remember? He remembered she’d brought wine, and whiskey—good stuff too—and they’d grilled steaks. They’d had sex—that much he remembered.

  He was so messed up right now. He needed a drink. No, he didn’t need a drink.

  Yes, he fucking did.

  Getting up, he walked over to the wet bar and rummaged through the bottles under the bar until he found a semi-clean glass and the bottle of amber liquid he’d been eyeing since coming into the room.

  Cooly, taking the bottle from him, said, “Brett, you’ve had enough of this. I need you to tell me what the hell this is all about. Is there any truth to this? I gotta tell you, the guys are fucking pissed. Really fucking pissed. Like they wanted to come over here and beat the shit out of you.”

  Brett took a long swallow of the liquid. Letting it burn down his throat, he squeezed his eyes shut tight, tears forming at the strong taste of the whiskey. He was tired all of a sudden—tired of being told what to do by people who didn’t even know him and hadn’t walked in his shoes. He deserved some respect. He deserved some credit for trying to keep them all solvent, if this article was true. Hell, he deserved . . . another drink. He reached for another bottle, not even caring what it was. Cooly snorted, but didn’t stop him from drinking it. He could feel his friend’s disgust as a tangible presence in the room, but he ignored it for the oblivion the alcohol promised.

  His eyes fell on the flyer for Havenwood Falls, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could be there right now.

  Cooly stood up. Striding over to his best friend, Cooly grabbed Brett by the shoulders. Twisting him around, he said, “I can’t help you anymore, man. I have problems of my own I need to take care of. You’re on your own. If you really did this, if you really signed a contract with those . . . those—what did you call them?—‘fucking blood-sucking vampires,’ then you’re on your own.”

  Brett, shaken by the tone of finality in his friend’s voice, opened his mouth to argue, to defend himself. How could he explain to Cooly, or the other guys, that he’d sold his soul to the devil to save them all?

  They wouldn’t believe him. Hell, he didn’t believe it. He didn’t remember signing that contract. How had that happened? He couldn’t have been that drunk, could he?

  He opened his mouth to speak once more. When he turned around to face Cooly, the words froze on his lips as he saw the door close behind his best friend.

  Possibly for the last time.

  Drawings in the Sand

  (Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)

  Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck

  I am drawn to you like the tide to the shore

  I have no choice

  I have no voice

  Being with you is an undeniable force

  You pull me under

  with the power of your love

  I have no will, only float

  staring at the stars above

  I cannot stop the need for your touch

  I have no will

  I have no thrill

  You are intoxicating, a drug I want too much

  You pull me under

  with the power of your love

  I have no will, only float

  staring at the stars above

  Take me to heaven and throw me to Earth

  I have no control

  I have no soul

  You have owned me since before my birth

  You pull me under

  with the power of your love

  I have no will, only float

  staring at the stars above

  Like drawings in the sand

  you leave me blank

  Pull me under

  Hold me forever

  Chapter 8

  Cece frowned, the lines between her brows deepening the more she tried to solve the problem facing her on the computer.

  “Can I help?”

  Cecilia looked up to see Meghan standing in front of her with a raised eyebrow and a small smile.

  “I hope so,” Cece said with a frustrated laugh. She turned the computer screen so Meghan could see it. “I want to put up another flyer about the music camp. But every time I try to change this, it goes blank on me.”

  Meghan looked at the screen for a second and then grinned.

  “Here. Just do this.” She struck a couple of keys, and the image Cece was trying to create was suddenly there.

  “Amazing,” Cece said with a laugh. “I am headed out to get a coffee. Can I get you one for a change?” Cece asked the teen. “I owe you that, and so much more, for your help.”

  Meghan shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said in a tone that implied she was not fine at all.

  “Want to talk about it?” Cece asked as she gathered her purse and coat from behind the counter. She kept her tone casual, knowing how the girl valued her privacy.

  “No, everything’s fine,” Meghan said. She met Cece’s disbelieving expression with a bland one of her own.

  Cece reached across the counter and squeezed the girl’s wrist, careful not to allow any visions in. “You can trust me. You know that, right?”

  Meghan nodded, lowering her eyes and turning when she heard Glenn’s voice.

  “Hey, Glenn,” Cece said as she rounded the counter, “I need to run and get some coffee. Do you want anything?”

  “Nope, I’m good,” Glenn said. He squeezed Meghan’s arm. “You okay?” he whispered to the girl.

  She nodded.

  “Watch the counter, then. I’ll be back in a minute.” Cece was out the door and down the street in a flash.

  She had felt her wings twitching all day long and needed to be out in the cool air to still her warming blood. She needed to fly, but since her last foray out, when she’d once again run into her dream lover, she hadn’t wanted to take the chance of encountering him.

  That last dream had been too strange for her. He’d grown wings in her dream, beautiful dove-gray wings, and she’d had a strange urge to pull him with her into the sky. When he’d abruptly left the vision, she’d not only been surprised, but disappointed in his desertion of her.

  “What’ll you have?” Paisley, one of the local teens who worked as a part-time barista at Coffee Haven, asked with a pretty smile. Coffee Haven was busy as always.

  “The usual,” Cece said with a laugh.

  Her order placed, Cece wandered around the shop a few minutes while she waited for her drink to be pr
epared. On one of the tables, she saw a paper. Picking it up, she realized it was one of those papers that listed events in the entertainment industry. She figured one of the tourists who had discovered Coffee Haven must have left it, because she didn’t know of any place in town that would sell this kind of newspaper.

  Her eyes were caught by the article about her rock star. “Hmmm . . . I wonder . . .”

  Cece was lost in thought until Paisley called her name. Thanking her for the drink, Cece folded the newspaper and left the shop. Heading back to the music store, she decided to give it one more try.

  “Here goes nothing,” she thought as she typed out her request to the Forthright Records and Management Company and addressed the email to Brett Rhys-Falwyck.

  Brett walked into the glass-enclosed conference room to find he was facing not just Amanda, but her whole team and the president of the company. They were all dressed in dark suits and wore even sterner expressions. Spread out before them were the contracts he had supposedly signed that day Amanda had visited him.

  He was alone. He hadn’t told Cooly or any of the others what he was planning to do. To be honest, he didn’t really know what he was planning to do. He hadn’t hired a lawyer, hoping they could settle this on their own without involving expensive attorneys and courts. He thought he was sparing them all, both the band and the management company, the embarrassment of false accusations and recriminations by doing this between friends instead of as adversarial opponents. He’d hoped they would meet him on similar grounds, but they obviously wanted to bring in the big guns.

  Greg Granite looked him in the eye and didn’t smile as he offered his hand. Brett shook it, not surprised to find the man’s hand smooth and slippery. Everything about the slick company president said he was not to be trusted. Sunday school admonitions from their minister about watching out for the one with the forked tongue rose to his mind. He met the man’s eyes, not surprised to find no sympathy in the dark irises. Somehow that set the tone for the whole meeting.